The Pickpocket of St Petersburg
by Leara Fiera
Summary: And Clint had died, and Natasha had run off and died too; and Phil had mourned, oh he had, but he'd also moved on and accepted he'd never deal with people as terribly competent as his unjustly fallen friends. Not until he heard about the Pickpocket of St. Petersburg and investigated. But it wasn't until Phil Coulson actually laid eyes on the kid that he believed the rumors.
1. Chapter 1

**The Pickpocket of St. Petersburg**

_Written Sept. 11, 2013_

The rain was heavy against the windshield of the SUV as a business-suit-wearing man sighed and looked in the rearview mirror. Around him, cars drove by at incredible speed, passing and being passed on the impersonally indifferent highway at a point between Nowhere and Somewhere. The man's eyes sought the sleeping form in the backseat whom a blanket had been draped across before turning his attention back on the road. They wouldn't reach their destination for hours and it had taken the child so long to fall asleep that he wasn't about to disturb the young one's rest.

Finding her hadn't been easy. Hell, he hadn't even been sure there had been someone or something to find. She hadn't been easy to find, and a fair share of the reasons behind the difficulty of the task was her own nature. She had wits, that were for sure, and he knew by first glance that she'd only bring trouble. She'd succeeded in being underestimated, and that was a mistake he'd only make once; no, now he knew her dubious nature.

When she slept now, peacefully, curled up in a fetal position in the middle of the proportionally enormous backseat, she seemed innocent, blonde hair tousled by fierceness and regular sleep movements. She was wayward, this one, but then again, anything but would have concerned the man.

Coulson fought the urge to look once again; half expecting her to be gone if he did not do so. Her parents had been that way (and might even have taught him that brand of paranoia). That thought filled him with an entirely different kind of wistfulness, and he sighed.

Years hadn't been kind to him; gray hairs marched across his scalp and wrinkles had marred themselves upon his stern face. It was no wonder she'd thought him an easy target (and yet he had to admire her assessments). He'd posed as an elderly tourist, more unsettled at how easily the role befit him than anything else, and then he'd waited. Two pickpockets had tried to empty his wallet and pockets but he hadn't allowed it; having known, somehow, that he was dealing with amateurs (at least compared to whom he was searching for). They had run off to report, and she hadn't been able to resist the challenge. Maybe it was her turf; that's what traveling bureaus said, and Coulson hated to admit that those were his most prominent sources when it came to his search.

They called her the pickpocket of St. Petersburg, and even Coulson had to admit her speed and efficiency was impressive. The moment he'd felt the hand was the moment he'd noticed her, she did such good a job blending in. Off she ran, dressed in plain clothes and a hat made from beaver's fur or something like it, most likely stolen from an inattentive tourist and re-appropriated. She weaved through the crowd like a hurried schoolgirl and not the professional thief she was. Even when she was working, she projected another appearance, another personality. She was more like either of her parents than she'd ever know.

It wasn't that there was a striking resemblance to any of them. Not like when they said in movies or novels that a character was the "spitting image of her mother", or "she's her father's twin", no; it was the small things. If Coulson hadn't spent half his career struggling to handle said parents, he wouldn't have been able to tell her apart from other riffraff on the Russian streets and plazas, but of course she'd be the best. It was practically predestined. He'd known her parents well enough to know they wouldn't have wanted her to be.

Be average, keep in line, don't be queer. It was a code to be lived by; and severe devastation came with sticking out. After ten seconds' worth of conversation with the unruly child, Phil had seen enough to realize that no child would ever be as sassy or streetsmart as the child he was currently tracking.

He'd first heard of her when he was in Belarus. It had started with a rumor, unsurprisingly (that was how he obtained some of his best agents). The child queen of pickpocketing in St. Petersburg. It wasn't unusual; most pickpockets were underage because if caught, authorities could do little. In the tourist season, the squares and streets were Gardens of Eden and fat wallets could be picked with little adversity. After someone had cracked a joke about young duchesses, it had sent wheels turning in Coulson's sharp mind and he'd spent weeks digging up files that were nearly a decade old.

He wouldn't lie, going through those reports were painful, and he wasn't too objective when it came to the circumstances surrounding Barton's death. It had been a horrible mess, and in the end, the Council had almost demanded Fury's resignation in order to have Hill as their string puppet. Messy was putting it lightly, and although Phil had been angry at the time for his asset's unreasonable decision, which had an impact on all, he now looked back with wistfulness and respect, along with sympathy for the Widow's decision. He wouldn't have been able to do what she did, and he'd have doubted her ability to do so if he hadn't been there to witness the message himself.

Most days, he mourned for his friends and sympathized with their hardships. In the meanwhile, his job hadn't gotten easier and it seemed he'd tasked himself with tracking down the hardest-kept secret of Europe (at least of S.H.I.E.L.D.) during his more relaxed schedules where it seemed his assets weren't actively trying to get themselves killed.

The world had changed and Phil had been there to witness it. The girl was a child of such world, and she knew the changed world to be hers, never questioning the way it was or comparing it to how it had been. In a moment of fault, Phil had forgotten her immaturity and demanded the same semblance he had of her parents. The result had been disastrous.

She was wild and unruly, forged by life on the streets and the victory of success. She had that youthful arrogance of bygones; the kind that still remained in rookie agents. The kind people like Natasha and Clint had lost eons ago. Then again, she was _ten years old_, and no amount of street experience could make her mature to their level of maturity (and yet, Barton had had the tendency to crack immature jokes at the most inappropriate of times).

Convincing her had been the hardest part. She was a skeptic, and although it was a brilliant trait, it had made things difficult. She'd understood how to milk his desperation, though. Cunning, it seemed, was a hereditary trait. Due to unfortunate circumstances (not to mention incredible odds), Phil had not taken part of the girl's childhood. It quickly became clear that no adult had, at least not consistently. The friends she kept varied in ages, but none seemed to have taken on the role of a parent, and whether it was due to rejection on her part, or the absence of volunteers was debatable.

The Widow had been reported to have died on Cuba three years ago. Phil had taken a three-day vacation from work (the first of such in years that wasn't prompted by injury and medical leave) to mourn, but hadn't known how. He portrayed an indifferently professional agent who'd know about paying respects, but the Widow and S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't exactly been on good terms (in fact Phil was pretty sure S.H.I.E.L.D. was to be blamed for her demise) and so he'd done the best he could. He knew he'd had the incredible privilege (and terrible pain in the ass) to have been assigned Strike Team Delta once upon a time so very long ago that it made Phil's teeth ache. The success rate alone made it worth the early streaks of gray he was certain to have obtained during his tenure as their dutiful handler. They were still legends junior agents spoke of – but then again, said junior agents weren't aware part of that team had gone rogue and entered S.H.I.E.L.D.'s list of international public enemies after shooting the other part of the team.

Phil shook his head in an attempt to shake the feeling of discomfort he associated with dwelling too long on Barton's death. He knew there had been way more factors than the official report implied, and he'd even forgiven Natasha for her act in Clint's aided suicide, but fact remained: the Widow had died an enemy, and it had had a terrible impact on the ten-year-old girl's upbringing. Then he heard a movement of limbs and glanced over his shoulder to stare directly into the mischievous face of his companion, sticking out in the space between the driver's seat and the passenger seat next to him.

"Hi," she said, feigning shyness.

"Er, hi," Phil replied, trying to determine when she'd woken and had crawled forward in her seat. Crawl was the wrong word to use, but she seemed to worm her way through everything, and Phil didn't exactly have training to deal with _kids_, only childish junior agents.

She stared ahead at the dark road in front of them, lit only by the headlights of the SUV. Then she freed herself of the seatbelt and was on the passenger's seat in moments. Phil opened his mouth to protest but it died there. Instead, he inquired.

"Aren't you gonna ask where we are?" It seemed a normal thing to do, didn't it?

"I spotted a sign about a mile back," she stated and informed him of the nearest city in flawlessly pronounced Russian, no doubt obtained by observation, or maybe parental guidance. Her mood was eerie, too accepting. Hell, Barton would have made more fuss about the situation than his daughter currently did. Phil reminded himself that nothing was certain yet; a blood test would have to be made, and only if the girl consented. He hated the idea of forcing a girl to do anything against her will if the test proved positive. No doubt her parents were hell-raisers even in the great beyond. Phil wasn't about to take his chances.

"What should I call you?" he asked in a feeble attempt to clear the awkward air. The girl didn't seem to mind, but he sure as hell needed verbal distractions from the fact that he might be transporting the child of his favorite (and deceased) agents. She'd already lied twice about her name and clammed shut when he'd kept asking. She seemed insistent upon remaining anonymous.

The girl glared at him and offered no answer, casually shrugging as if it was up to him.

"You must go by some name," he reasoned. Even Natasha had had a name when Barton had dragged her bankside. Sure, she'd changed and modified it, but she'd had a name.

"What's it to you?" she replied suspiciously, scowling.

"I need something to call you."

She exhaled dramatically and didn't speak for a long while. She stared out the window into the dark abyss until she murmured.

"Sasha."

Phil frowned. "That's a boy's name."

"So?" she asked skeptically, facing him in confrontation, adopting a defensive posture. Phil knew rather lot about Russian names, but figured lecturing the girl about it would get him nowhere.

"Saskia?" he guessed, thinking the given name a nickname bestowed upon her by the other thieves. He hoped she wouldn't return to that environment, and maybe a new name would be good for her. She gritted her teeth in response but said nothing.

"Sasha it is, then," Phil concluded, wondering how a ten-year-old could be so demanding and intimidating. Then he remembered that both Natasha and Barton had been ten-year-olds once, and immediately gulped.

They continued their journey in relative silence, the darkness allowing no games of observation or appreciation for the landscape.

He'd taken her to the Winter Palace, the Hermitage Museum. She claimed she'd never been, but it hadn't been awe that had painted her face when they entered the ward of the Russian palatial buildings. Once inside, as Coulson had paid for their tickets, she seemed more amazed. She watched the art for interest and pretense's sake, but studied the people more, curiously and greedily. She was an opportunist, that much showed, because he'd caught her pickpocketing twice and demanded she return the wallets and jewelry; preferably without discovery. Soon, it became a game of sorts, correcting wrongs, and although the treasures were far worth the nuisances, they had parted with the museum and its guests penniless and smiling smugly.

Sasha had a talent, a talent that had been nurtured and encouraged as a sport. What had started out innocently (as all things did, with perhaps an exception to be made in Natasha's case) had become a dangerous play of shadows between fellow pickpockets and local police. She was intelligent enough to know what she was doing was wrong—but only, she argued, according to the people from whom she stole, which were people who could afford the absence of fat wallets. She didn't starve and she showered regularly, but she had no home, nor was she homeless. It seemed a contradiction, but Natasha had long ago presented Phil with the advantages of having no homes, which could—and _would_—be torn apart and rummaged by strangers. Sasha got by similarly; guesting at orphanages when the cold grew too much or the streets too boring, and tricked her keepers once she'd been entertained, once again roaming the streets soon after. It shouldn't have surprised Phil as much as it did.

His phone buzzed and he activated his earpiece. He knew already that it'd either be S.H.I.E.L.D. or Jenna. He accepted the call, eyes still on Sasha.

"Coulson," he said customarily. Sasha pretended not to be eavesdropping but Phil knew better than to think the child of spies wasn't listening when she had nothing else to preoccupy herself with.

"_Hill. When can you be in Norway?_" the voice of his superior asked, a strain of desperation fading into the no-nonsense question.

"I'm in Luga, so it'll take a while," he reported as he passed another Russian sign that confirmed his location.

"_I thought you said you were in Finland_," Hill replied. She'd emailed him two days ago and he'd been in Finland then.

"I was."

"_Mind telling me what you were doing in western Russia, Agent Coulson?_" Maria asked dryly as if it wasn't an order. Technically, she could order him to reply.

"Following up on a lead," Phil said.

"_You have no active operations in Russia. And you need to fill out a report before you go off the deep end. So, again: what are you doing in Russia, Phil?_" Hill asked politely, but Phil could hear the annoyance behind the pretense.

"I found Romanoff's heir," Phil replied rather bluntly.

"_What?_" Hill said, confused. "_Romanoff's dead, Phil_." She sounded uncertain about that last one, as if afraid he'd gone and had a mental breakdown. People tended to be careful around him when mentioning his former operatives—especially Barton and Romanoff, whose stories were far from happy-ended.

"I found their daughter, Maria," Phil said, voice mixed businesslike and soft. He was speaking to her like the friend she'd been when he'd found Barton's body, or dealt with Barton and Romanoff post-New York.

"W_hat are you talking about, they never had a—wait, you're being serious? They had a kid?_" she said in disbelief, albeit slightly disdainfully as if they'd been unfit parents. Perhaps they had. Phil gave her a couple of seconds to process it. "_Who?_"

"The 'Pickpocket of St. Petersburg'," he revealed with the slightest of smirks.

"_No. Way._" In that moment, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s highest-ranking lieutenant sounded like a high school girl—quite the feat, if Phil had to say so himself. Hill had heard the rumors too, it seemed, but hadn't connected them. "_How?_"

"There's more questions than answers with this one," Phil reported vaguely, uncomfortable discussing the matter within earshot of the child.

"_So, she's just like her mother_," Hill stated, somewhat disapproving. Maria had been high on the corporal ladder when Barton had dragged Romanoff into their organization, much to the chagrin of several intelligence agencies.

Phil opened his mouth to defend his tagalong ward, but didn't know which words to use. Sasha was spirited, that was basically all he knew, and maybe she was just like her mother, with the exception of not having been used as cannon fodder during training to became a highly skilled asset. "She's ten years old, Hill. I doubt she'll bring the trouble Romanoff did."

"_If she has half the mind her mom had, you'd be wrong_," Hill pointed out and sighed sympathetically. "_I'll get Raoul instead. I assume you're heading for Estonia?_"

Phil confirmed this reluctantly. It was a nuisance to be known so well, especially by his own boss. Then again, he'd worked reconnaissance and search-and-destroy with Hill once upon a very long time ago. Back when they'd both been field agents.

"_I'll have a chopper available for you. Please say you didn't just abduct the kid_," Hill pleaded exasperatedly.

"Eh…"

"_Tell me you didn't_," Maria growled threateningly.

"It's not that," he interjected defensively. "It's not stealing if it doesn't belong to anyone!"

"_God, Coulson_…" Hill said in a warning tone. Phil got the impression there'd be a lot of paperwork on his desk when he got back.

"I didn't take her against her will or anything!" he defended. Sasha looked at him curiously, and as always, eerily ambiguous. It unsettled the seasoned agent more than he cared to admit, how much she seemed to have adopted Natasha's persona. "She was living on the streets."

"_Someone somewhere has to care for her_," Hill reasoned. "_And she's a kid, not stolen property! She has to be registered somewhere._"

Phil knew the underlying threat. If he had found her, chances were that others—enemies and allies alike (depending on whose side you took), could have been monitoring her, too. "I'm telling you, Maria, she isn't. No birth certificate, no medical history—_nothing_."

"_It'd explain why she wasn't on our radar sooner_," Maria stated. "_She's a ghost_."

"She's the ghost of ghosts," Phil pointed out. "Remember how long it took us to even pinpoint Romanoff's _existence_?"

He could hear Hill gritting her teeth. "_That's something else_," she argued irritably as if it was beside the point. "_We didn't know the Russians were capable of that kind of training. It seemed impossible_."

"So does the girl."

Maria sighed dreadfully. He could imagine how she tiredly ran her hand through her hair and rolled her eyes at his stubbornness, but secretly smiled that smile of hers, thankful he was that loyal to something. "_I'll get a pilot ready for you in Estonia_," she said, relenting.

"Thanks, Maria," Phil replied softly, gratefully.

"_Have you considered the impact this will have, Phil?_" Maria asked, just as concerned and softly. "_Romanoff went to great lengths to hide the girl… no name, no birth records_…"

"She was living on the streets, Maria," Phil pleaded; he'd considered it, of course, but he couldn't turn his back on the only child of his friends and allow her to continue the life on the streets of St. Petersburg—however cunning she might be.

Another sigh. She was accepting he wasn't going to change his mind—especially not whilst driving eighty miles an hour on a remote road. "_How is she?_"

The question surprised him. "She's… ten," he said, as if it described everything that made the enigma Natasha and Clint's daughter was. How did someone describe such small a person? It wasn't as if she wouldn't change appearance and opinions repeatedly during adolescence, shaped by the world.

"_I'm pretty sure that's a number, not an adjective_," Maria deadpanned unimpressed. Sasha had turned her head to look outside, despite there being almost no cars to observe. Phil suspected she'd lost interest in the one-sided conversation, because although she spoke eloquent English, but she was ten and her peers had spoken Russian. It really was a no-brainer.

Phil switched into Spanish to be sure, his voice quaking with surprise at how to describe the being sitting next to him. "She's… smart. Thinks she knows the whole world but knows, somehow, that she doesn't. You know that look Romanoff sent me when we got back from Kuwait?" He knew Maria would; they'd both been perplexed. "She gives me that look. And cracks Barton's jokes," Phil told her, grinning.

Maria exhaled and her voice became fragile. "_I'm sorry, Phil_."

"It's been ten years," he stated with glazed-over eyes. He knew what she was referring to. Nobody had fought harder for Clint and Natasha (perhaps the rest of the Avengers, but they hadn't lived through six years of chaotic missions before being thrown together) than Phil Coulson, and in the end, he'd been proven wrong. It was a widely known truth within S.H.I.E.L.D., and with the both of them gone, whisked away by deaths that were far from natural, Sasha was truly a miracle. Maria recognized _this_; she even _told him_ he might be seeing things because he wanted them to.

Ten years or so ago—Phil refused to count days and celebrate anniversaries, choosing the happier ones instead (then again, maybe he just was a sentimentalist)—Clint Barton had accepted a heartfelt proposal that only one single camera in Stark's tower had been able to record (the contents of that videotape had long since been confiscated and subsequently mysteriously disappeared, but that was beside the point). He'd been diagnosed with paraplegia following a Quinjet's crash into the cityscape. It had been a terrible accident, and although Barton's skills as a pilot were admirable, there had been nothing that could have been done. The accident had left him with permanently damaged legs and he'd sunk into depression as the Widow had been assigned elsewhere with the terrible burden of guarding Midgard's only godly prisoner. Events had followed, and due to questionable allegiances, Fury had banned Natasha from entering and thus, visiting, Avengers Tower. Months later, Rogers had called the Widow and informed her of the terrible story that would send achy cries through the lives of the heroes. Two hours later, Natasha had obliged to Clint's final wish: that she be the one to kill him.

There was no reason to why Natasha would have simply killed Clint in cold blood—Phil wouldn't believe it, never _could_—only to storm off with a god on her hands, linked to him magically. Ever since, S.H.I.E.L.D. had actively hunted the defector who went rogue and killed her partner. Phil had always thought Fury had forced her hand by banning the partners from visible and physical contact, especially in Barton's delicate situation. Reasonably, Fury had seen Natasha as a threat, and Barton as something to be protected, but that kind of logic had never worked with the enigmatic partners, not even when they had opposed each other (because they'd rarely agreed when not collectively opposed). Natasha Romanoff had never been a threat to Barton, only emotionally and spontaneously. They had complemented each other, and Sasha was an example of how the same had happened genetically. She'd inherited none of her parents' sob stories.

"_Ten years don't matter if she's like them_," Maria pointed out with a solidarity that his wife wouldn't be capable of.

Phil chuckled sadly. "She's a girl without parents, Maria."

"_Just like Barton and Natasha were children without parents, Phil_," she replied. "_Just… take care, okay? I won't be happy hearing you hijacked a courtroom and seven armadas just to escape Russian child protective services_."

"But you'd still get me out of there," Phil said with a smile.

"_I might just not_," Maria teased. "_Goodnight, Phil."_

"I won't go to sleep for a while, but you should," he advised, knowing she wouldn't, and if she did, it wasn't because of his words but the genuine urge to rest that could no longer be ignored.

When he'd hung up, he found Sasha staring at him, wide-eyed and suspicious. Those eyes held incredible skepticism and he'd have been offended if she hadn't been a stranger.

"Who's Maria?" she asked, tilting her head while her fingers drummed absentmindedly on the car's dashboard.

"She's a friend," Phil explained casually. Technically, that was true, but the girl didn't have the clearance to know about S.H.I.E.L.D. and spies and teams of superheroes who generally made S.H.I.E.L.D. agents' lives a personal hell. "And she's my boss."

He normally had no qualms admitting that. He certainly didn't want Hill's job or the perks and burdens that came with it. No, he preferred dealing with grumpy, childish consultants and homicidally challenged operatives. Somehow, Sasha's look of skepticism made him question his usual feelings regarding the matter. "That's weird."

He looked at her frowning face. "Why's that?"

Sasha looked at home with that mature gaze she got and said, "Because, how can you be friends with someone you're not supposed to care about?"

"I care about her," Phil argued, "and she's my boss. Why can't those two be mutually inclusive?"

"Friends are someone whom you trust; someone who won't ever hurt you, except maybe unintentionally. Employers don't care. They pay you and they leave when the job is done."

It reminded him of something Natasha had once said to him concerning loyalty, concerning S.H.I.E.L.D.'s loyalty towards her as an asset. She'd said they only cared about her skillsets and cooperation. In the end, it had been untrue: they'd cared about her loyalty and especially that extended towards Clint. Sasha had said it with too much cynicism.

"You're _ten_," he said. "What would _you_ know about employment?"

"You're _old_," she countered without missing a beat. "What would _you_ know about pickpocketing?" She sent him the same patronizing look he'd sent her, except this one was in amused mockery.

He'd been right. She was a smart ten-year-old and worse, a wisecracking one. He chuckled soundlessly and turned his eyes back on the road. "True. If you're hungry, there are some granola bars in the glove compartment."

Sasha eyed him skeptically. "Why are you being so _nice_?" she asked as if it was a foreign concept scarcely acquainted with.

"You're ten. People are supposed to be nice to you. It's like a get-out-of-jail-free card," he replied. He wasn't going to lecture her about possible genetics and bloodlines at ten in the evening. She screwed up her face at the word jail, but he'd have done that, too, if he'd been stealing people's wallets for years.

"Not everybody's like you," she noted. "Why are you so interested in _me?_"

It wasn't the first time he'd heard that. Over the years, Barton had questioned him with the very same words over and over; adamant to achieve some kind of justification why he'd been the one sniper Phil chose to recruit. There certainly had been other snipers with the same ability and far better moral compasses. Romanoff had asked Barton the same question several times, at least as many as Barton had asked of Phil. It seemed the circle was completing, with their daughter asking the same of Phil.

Yet, what answer could you possibly give a ten-year-old that would not only suffice but also properly summarize the duty he felt towards her as an extension of the one he'd felt towards her parents?

Phil had no answer, and Sasha accepted this.

* * *

_There was once a mother who fell too deep _  
_She left a little daughter for me to keep _  
_She grew up to be a true princess of the street_

- Dune, Heiress of Valentina


	2. Chapter 2

_Before Coulson can begin to get to know Sasha, protocols demand a blood sample from the ten-year-old to prove that she indeed is who he suspects she is. But is he right in thinking Clint's her father?_

* * *

**The Pickpocket of St. Petersburg: **

**Her Father's Daughter**

"It's not going to hurt," Phil tried, the pointlessness of the argument already befalling him. "I promise."

"You are not the one being poked with a needle!" Sasha pointed out, going for snarky instead of scared, which the semi-watery eyes and her well-hidden hysteria exposed. She sat defiantly on the cot, legs swinging, scowling. The doctor had left to fetch some sort of medicinal tubes (Phil hadn't asked), leaving the odd pair to bicker.

"It'll be quick. You don't even have to look," he assured her.

"Why can't they just use my spit or something?"

Phil couldn't argue with her logic; had it been himself demanding the DNA results, he'd have gone for a cheek swap, too, but S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted a blood test checkup before they'd even allow them off the base, as if she was carrying contaminants beneath her skinny self (something which Phil highly doubted, but his arguments were futile against the medical head of this base who apparently had received orders to check the girl for anything abnormal). That was awfully vague, and so Phil had made sure never to let Sasha be unaccompanied.

"They need to check if there's something in your blood," he explained in what he hoped to be simple terms. Regardless, Sasha seemed smart. The problem was that she was also frightened and way too aware what a blood test entailed.

"I'm not sick," she said as she grimaced.

Phil believed her. That was partially why S.H.I.E.L.D. had demanded the sample. Natasha's training hadn't just been physically and mentally, but also biologically enhancing. By the time the Black Widow had defected S.H.I.E.L.D., they'd known about half of the amplifying drugs in her system, which had been placed upon her graduation as a Widow from the Russian ambiguous clandestine training program. The combination was far from simple and had been toxic to most, developed by means of trial-and-error. When you saw Natasha, you'd never guess how much she'd endured and could endure. S.H.I.E.L.D. had played that card, too, to their advantage, expecting targets to underestimate a delicate, feminine target. They had. Now Phil was faced with the same problem. Had Natasha's amplifications been passed down to her daughter? If that was the case—if Sasha truly was a Romanova—then it could mean disastrous ramifications. Scientists at S.H.I.E.L.D. had always been curious and often invasive in their desire to see what made the Widow. The Widow's DNA hadn't meant to be copied, hadn't meant to be passed on. If you asked Phil, which few did, the Russians had screwed up. The truth was there, though: Natasha had rarely been sick, even when a normal person's immune system would have been down, and so far, from what Sasha told him, she hadn't, either, which was remarkable considering her trade and lifestyle.

On the cot, the ten-year-old girl fretted, her eyes scanning the small room. It wasn't very child-friendly, because most people who got here were agents or detainees. Phil hated to consider which category fit Sasha best.

"Sasha, look," he requested softly, putting away the clipboard and the pen and crouching down so that their eyes were at the same level. He stared gently into those bright eyes, filled with insecurities, distrust and daresay it, hope. She had her mother's eyes, that was for sure. She even nailed that unbearable look. "You do this, I owe you one."

"Owe me what?" she asked suspiciously.

"A favor," he said solemnly. Sasha eyed him with those eerily suspicious eyes before finding some truth in his and relaxing. It was as if her entire body _sighed_.

"Okay," she relented, and although it was a simple word, he saw the heavy decision in her eyes; the decision to trust his word, to trust _him_. That decision shouldn't have been so hard on a ten-year-old child as it was to the child pickpocket. Trusting had always been hard for Natasha and Barton, too. Phil, on the other hand, while competent, was always soft at heart, always willing to see people for their best and not their worst. He regretted that Sasha was as distrustful at this early an age. He could only hope that it'd change. Natasha had, Barton had, which hopefully meant that Sasha, _a ten-year-old_, could.

The door opened and the doctor returned carrying vials presumably for blood drawing. Sasha followed each step with watchful eyes. If the doctor noticed, he didn't comment. He was probably used to dealing with paranoid agents. Still, Phil would have been appalled at seeing the same reaction in a kid.

"You're not a kids doctor, are you?" Sasha, thinking the same, asked bluntly.

The doctor sent Phil a surprised look before patiently replying. "I'm a certified doctor, if that's what you mean. But no, I'm not primarily a pediatrician."

"What's that?" Sasha asked, unfamiliar with the term.

"A fancy term for kids doctor," Phil supplied. Even in the face of unsettlement, Sasha was chatting up the possible target. Sneaky girl. He wondered how often she'd used the same trick on the people whose pockets she'd picked in St. Petersburg, and reminded himself to check her pockets before leaving here. With Barton it had been paperclips; Natasha, more creative in her approaches (or perhaps simply more unorthodox), had stuck to _any_ sharp objects, often pens, and rubber bands (of which had thrice ended in makeshift shivs that had proven dangerously effective). Suffice to say, neither had liked Medical particularly. Phil wasn't taking any chances: he watched Sasha meticulously.

"I'll need you to roll up your sleeve for me," the doctor said, somewhat kindly but more professionally, and Phil half expected his ward to make a flippant reply. However, she did not, instead looking at Phil in remembrance of their agreement and doing as she was told. She'd already taken off her jacket, revealing numerous inner pockets with specific purposes, and now bared her arm, revealing pale skin that had been hidden beneath layers of clothing in St. Petersburg.

Sasha winced a bit as the rubber band was placed on her bicep in preparation. A little bit of queasiness and fear slipped into her expression and Phil stepped closer. "Don't worry."

"It itches," she complained but it sounded more like a statement. He couldn't really argue with that; medical procedures weren't designed primarily to be comfortable.

"Tell me something about you," he blurted and felt at least as surprised at the question as Sasha looked. He felt like blushing. "What do you like?"

What did normal ten-year-olds like? Phil couldn't tell, but he was pretty sure Sasha didn't count as "normal" or perhaps she did, just not from his baseline of normal. Given her debatable parentage, was it then odd that she'd been pickpocketing, strategizing? He half expected her to say 'Walther PKK/Ss' or 'TNT' just based on her parents.

"Snow," she said finally after staring at him in disbelief. "I like snow. I know it's stupid…" She looked down as if ashamed at her childishness (and Phil told himself how wrong that was—that a ten-year-old girl blamed herself or felt embarrassed for _liking snow_). "… but I like it. It's pretty."

Phil's heart sank with compassion and collective guilt. The world oughtn't to have been so harsh on a child (and he told himself he'd have felt this for any child, but Sasha was Natasha's and Natasha had not deserved anything of what she'd gotten in life in regards to tragedies). "That's not stupid," he said and thought of his time in the snowier parts of Greenland with a wry smile. "I like snow, too."

Her face lit up—half with glee, the other half with suspicion and disbelief. "Really?"

He nodded animatedly and couldn't help but smile. "The fluffy kind."

"That's good, too," Sasha agreed shyly, biting her lip as the doctor pinched the needle in her arm. Tears welled up in her eyes unwillingly. He could see she was trying to be brave.

"Hey," Phil said quickly and had to stop himself from letting out a panicked 'don't cry'. He quickly thought of the tree in his garden at home (although he wasn't sure how). "How about tree-climbing?"

Sasha knitted her eyebrows in confusion, distracting her from the pinch. "Tree-climbing?"

"Yeah," he said, voice raised half an octave more than usual. "I have a great tree at home for climbing. I'm not sure it'd hold me," he continued, thinking of the thirteen-foot tree in his backyard, "but you could climb it."

"How tall is it?" Sasha inquired, curious. The doctor removed the needle after having filled two vials. He placed a cotton ball where the needle had been to prevent further bleeding.

"_Tall_," he replied in Russian. "I'll take you," he promised without second thought.

Sasha smirked smugly and then smiled innocently as she realized he was watching her. Even knowing her tricks, Phil was still surrendering to her charms in a way he never had surrendered to Natasha's tricks_. _Then again—she'd never tried to act innocent around him. After a while, Natasha had just stopped trying to get Phil wrapped around her finger.

"I'll leave you two alone," the doctor said, excusing himself. Phil would have been suspicious if he hadn't seen the doctor's muted pager go off during the blood taking. The doctor caught Phil's eyes. "You'll need to fill out the obligatory paperwork, Agent."

Phil nodded sternly and the doctor left. He glanced down at the papers and mentally rolled his eyes. Paperwork, it seemed, was never-ending.

"I need your last name," he told her and held up the pen to fill out the registration form. Sasha tilted her head as if he was asking her if she liked bunnies. Phil merely maintained an even stare until she relented.

"I'm listed as Lyubomirsky," she told him, shrugging indifferently, although he could see it obviously mattered to her. "It's a name the orphanage gave me."

"How do you spell that?" Phil wondered aloud, quickly adding, "Phonetically. Non-Cyrillic."

"L-y-u-b-o-m-i-r-s-k-y," she spelled out with too much ease for it to be a lie, especially considering English wasn't her first language. However, considering whose daughter she was, she might be.

"Sasha Lyubomirsky," he said as he wrote. "What a lovely name," he murmured, cringing at the oxymoronic situation. He ticked her off as female as he skimmed the boxes that needed to be filled out. Sheesh, they demanded a lot for a little blood test.

"What is that form for, really?" the girl asked, trying to get a peek.

Phil looked down at the paper. The first was the one he had to fill out for paperwork regarding the DNA blood test, which would compare Sasha's DNA with the samples from Hawkeye and Black Widow that were on file. The second one was trickier. It was an application for foster guardianship—temporary custody of Sasha.

"So the doctors can tell the blood samples apart," Phil explained in a half lie. He moved unto the next question. "When's your birthday?"

"April 30," she replied and, knowing she was ten, he easily calculated the year of birth. He knew it already, but confirmation was like a slap to the face. He paled considerably. Supposing Sasha hadn't been premature or overdue—which, knowing Natasha's style, she probably had been—Natasha had been pregnant already when she'd left S.H.I.E.L.D., but just barely. The last month of Natasha's employment had been filled with shady whereabouts and developing paranoia due to her untimely but magical linking to Loki whom S.H.I.E.L.D. had hunted just as vehemently but who'd been surprisingly docile once freed. No New Yorks, no attempts at dictatorship, _nada_.

There were way too many unanswered questions to Phil's liking. If her records at the orphanage were falsified, which they most likely were, this was the first genuine registration of Natasha's daughter. The thought made Phil queasy. He filled out the rest of the form quite easily, marking and ticking off appropriately. Some were left out blank, but neither Phil nor Sasha knew the answers to those ones.

Was that how Natasha had felt, Phil had to wonder, when she'd broken free from her doll-like, mindless killing state at Red Room? Memory filled with blanks and ignorance? It wasn't something Phil wished on anyone.

He grabbed Sasha's jacket and helped her down from the cot, trying not to think about her parentage. What if he'd been wrong? What if Natasha hadn't been as faithful as he'd suspected? It was a question he'd been asking himself for years, but never in regards to sexual intimacy. He'd always been wary of their partnership due to Clint's protective and at times possessive side, and Natasha's kinds of missions. He'd advised them against it, but ultimately his words hadn't weighed enough. He was glad they'd done so, happy that they'd gotten their chance at happiness that was so oftentimes denied them. That things hadn't gone as expected was obvious. It was Phil's penance to spend the rest of his life wondering if he could have saved them both by being more strict, by firmer restriction, by not looking the other way in regards to their personal relationship. Maybe if he had, Clint would still have been alive and Natasha would still be working for S.H.I.E.L.D. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't feel so guilty all the time.

Maybe if he had, he would be able to look at Sasha and simply smile. Maybe he would be able to say, 'I knew your parents', without breaking**. **Natasha wasn't pansexual by nature, but wrongly so by trait. With Red Room's training, they could have made her asexual, and she was to some extent, he supposed. She wasn't meant to be warm, forgiving and loving; they were all traits Clint had brought out. If Sasha wasn't Clint's, she was still Natasha's, and Phil owed them enough to take care of Sasha regardless of questionable paternity. What he was trying not to think about was that the only thing he knew for sure was that Natasha had been Loki's keeper for one month before hijacking Clint's suicide and doing him the last favor. He'd assigned her the guardianship and protective detail himself. Loki had been on loan from the Asgardians who had issued severe punishment for his earthly crimes, but Thor had loved his brother and S.H.I.E.L.D. had wanted to know about magic and somehow, Natasha had drawn the short straw.

Loki must have known about Natasha's pregnancy, yet Sasha was alive and Natasha hadn't been linked at the time of her death. Whatever had transpired—before Sasha's birth and after—could only be estimated. Phil dreaded finding out who was Sasha's father, but he had to. The world wasn't perfect, and Natasha and Clint's relationship hadn't been, either. It was naïve to believe Barton was the only one Natasha had taken to bed, but she'd had no missions, and the alternative had been Loki or some stranger immediately following Barton's death. Phil didn't want to think so of Natasha, but he had to prepare himself for the possible.

That Sasha, however kind and alike to Clint, could be Loki's daughter. It wasn't unfeasible. Natasha was attractive and there were files in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s database analyzing the relationship and exactly how much they had in common. In short terms, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s analysts had even made a list of why the two were perfect for each other. It sickened Phil accordingly. No, it didn't _sicken_ him, it unnerved him. It tarnished his notions of Natasha and Clint, but it didn't sicken him. Nothing about Sasha could.

"Where are we going?" Sasha asked as they made their way through the mazy corridors of the Estonian base. Phil had already confirmed his travel plans with the base commander, who had confirmed Maria's order that a pilot stood by. She'd said there would be a chopper waiting, but to Phil's surprise, a Quinjet awaited them. Since last year's escapades in Brazil and a subsequent UN hearing, S.H.I.E.L.D. authorization had banned the use of Quinjets aside from military actions and rescue missions, along with preapproved measures, as a means to not disrupt civilians and incite anarchism. Phil didn't see why. It wasn't as if Agents Carlson and Russo had _meant_ to do that.

Their pilot, Millers, joined them with a curt acknowledging nod. He was younger than Phil would have liked – or perhaps Phil was merely getting older than _he_'d like – but didn't question why the senior agent was currently holding hands with a wide-eyed ten-year-old. They'd spoken briefly before Phil and Sasha had gone to get her blood drawn, but otherwise Phil knew little about the S.H.I.E.L.D. pilot. There was a time where he knew virtually everybody in S.H.I.E.L.D. and half of which owed him favors. That half still did, although some favors had been cashed in and other debts had been established—especially surrounding the time immediately after Barton's suicide, when Phil professionally and privately hunted Natasha. As he said, the world had changed and the people with it.

"What's that?" Sasha asked skeptically as the Quinjet came into view. She'd removed the medical tape and cotton ball from the inside of her elbow from where the doctor had drawn her blood. Aside from a tiny point that could have easily been made with a pen, you couldn't see she'd been poked at all. She'd even recovered from her slight moment of less-than-fearless behavior.

Phil followed her line of sight (despite being perfectly aware of what she was referring to) until his eyes came upon the aerial vehicle. Over the years he'd come to see the Quinjets as everyday means of transportation (or, at least, until a year ago) and had made half of his transatlantic journeys in the last fifteen years in them. They weren't perfect; they were still crashable, but some things just couldn't be idiot-proofed no matter how hard engineers tried. There was always going to be some fool, often with a too big ego, that would think it was child's play (till this day Phil still solemnly swore that it had been a miracle that Stark had even been salvageable following that stunt) and attempt flight after half a dozen tequila shots. The technician that had allowed that to happen was probably still being punished.

"Quinjet," Phil replied, smirking because of the slight awe in Sasha's voice and face. Natasha had been unbaffled when she'd first glanced upon it, and Barton had asked if he could get a chance to maneuver it (and, upon receiving a no, had been disinterested for the rest of the flight). Secretly, Phil was more than pleased they wouldn't be flying commercially. Tourists were just… unfeasibly exhausting. No doubt Sasha would be entertained, but valuables probably didn't go missing during a flight as much as they would once Sasha boarded. No, like it or not (and personally, Phil did) this was the more subtle way. Alerting the authorities never ended well in Barton and Romanoff's cases and Phil couldn't possibly see why it would now.

"Is it a helicopter or a plane?" she questioned uncertainly, but then her eyes caught something of interest. "Is that an under-mounted rocket launcher?" Sasha asked with far more fervor.

Phil could have slapped himself, but then he wouldn't have seen Millers choke on his own breath, eyes widened like a poked fish. The younger agent stared at Sasha, who merely drunk in the sight of the expensive paramilitary aerial vehicle animatedly.

"Smooth, Sasha, real smooth," Phil muttered to himself mostly while he pinched the bridge of his nose. Beside him, Millers coughed and something that suspiciously resembled the remnant pieces of a sandwich flew to the floor. Phil was unimpressed, and turned to Sasha.

As if anyone could be in doubt of who'd influenced her upbringing. Phil didn't know whether to applaud or berate Natasha for it.

"It's operated independently from the navigation system," Phil informed her, opening the door so that they could climb in. The launch pad was cleared, aside from the Quinjet, and open sky stretched to one side of the pad. The other would open once they'd gotten their final flight clearance and were properly strapped in. He was uncertain as whether or not to say 'don't touch' but he was too weirded out by the situation to say anything but the standard mantra he made when he had to brief recruits on the inner workings of Quinjets. He pointed at the seat from which the launcher was operated. "The co-pilot adjusts settings based on wind factors and enemy defenses."

Sasha's eyes glistened with animation and excitement. Then she snapped her eyes to him and gave him a perplexed look. "What kind of agent _are_ _you_?"

"What kind of ten-year-old are _you_?" he countered.

She looked down in wonder, actually considering the question. "Not quite ordinary, I suppose," she finally replied. "What about you?"

"I guess that fits pretty well, too," Phil assessed with a shrug. He'd let go of her hand as she'd run to the machine. He watched, making sure she didn't fiddle. "Not quite ordinary."

Millers, seemingly having recovered from his sudden and embarrassing coughing fit, entered the Quinjet, eyeing Sasha strangely. In response, she leaned more into Phil's pant leg, uneasy at the attention. Phil wasn't sure if the reaction was genuine or not, but sent a firm glare in Millers' direction anyway, hand caressing Sasha's unruly blonde hair.

"C'mon, kid, we need to get you strapped in like a proper soldier," Phil said, trying to keep the protectiveness out of his voice. He felt like restraining the agent until he'd run a proper background check on him and undug his entire family history, including that one Thanksgiving incident that always happened and no-one felt comfortable discussing unless bound by legal oath and obligation.

"I'm not a soldier," she argued. She didn't whine or drag out the syllables like kids tended to do on playgrounds or throw a tantrum or whatever children ought to do in a situation like this (it sure as hell wasn't admiring the rocket launchers, or even knowing the meaning of the word 'rocket launcher').

"And why's that?" Phil asked as he helped her strap herself into the large but normal-sized seat of the Quinjet. It'd be a long ride and he'd make sure she was fastened before their journey began.

"Soldiers die," the ten-year-old said solemnly, looking down into her lap with a sudden sadness. "But not just soldiers. But soldiers die more often than other people."

"Do you know somebody who died, Sasha?" Phil asked hesitantly. His profession made it hard not to know people who'd died, but Sasha shouldn't know death this intimately. He thought of Natasha, of the Cuban report, and of the New York suicide. His life was littered with the same deaths that Sasha's was.

Sasha became still and looked down, clamming shut. Phil sighed but didn't choose to ask further. He actually wanted her to _like_ him, and giving her the third-degree interrogation wouldn't do any of them good, least of all Phil's conscience (which was still suffering from the unexaggerated news Natasha's death).

Ten minutes later, they were in the air. Millers kept to his controls in the cockpit, which was advisable and appreciated, and a silence had settled between Phil and Sasha. Phil used to like – and still did, on most occasions – silences; they were a beautiful refrain from the bickering he'd endured as the handler of numerous sets of partners and solo operatives. He hadn't been Clint and Natasha's handler; he'd been their keeper, their mediator and their occasional (and professional) savior. Good, they'd angered the Council more times than could be considered healthy. But with Sasha, the silence wasn't soothing or calming. The silence berated him, told him he'd done something wrong, berated him like his first instructor had, inconsiderably so. The worst part of it was, Sasha didn't do anything to indicate disapproval or blame. She merely kept quiet.

It had been when Clint or Natasha had been quiet that bad things had started happening. It had ranged from innocent pranks that turned out disastrous, to former enemy operatives hanging from rooftops, killed in their sleep. Silent operatives were scarier than bickering ones, or even unhappy ones, and lead to _silenced_ operatives of enemy agencies.

Sasha fretted and then slept. Slept the way Natasha – or Clint, for that matter – never had been able to. It left Phil plenty of time to contemplate what he was actually doing. However aided by Maria's position of authority, he had gone behind S.H.I.E.L.D.'s backs in deciding to take Sasha off the streets and get her on a plane heading for the country she should have been raised in. Then again, what kind of right did he have to dictate what she should and should not have been?

He could have never imagined his two star operatives settling down and having kids. It just hadn't been their style, and yet when he looked at the fragile ten-year-old who'd singlehandedly held the title as the best pickpocket in St. Petersburg for God knew how long a reign, he could imagine their lives as a family. Never truly functional, but the Widow and Hawkeye had surprised him more often than not, often by surviving against terrible odds, and Natasha and Clint had surprised him with their childish fits and tender caring post-missions. In Natasha's eyes he'd seen incredible care and patience, and he'd been there to witness Clint breach the brink of insanity whenever his partner and best friend would go missing or end up seriously hurt. They had defined fretting, and they'd fretted for each other. It was quite the bidirectional relationship—and yes, he used the word 'relationship' to denote them, and he was entitled to, having known them best of all, perhaps even better than themselves at times, but rarely so, and oftentimes he'd had to ask himself if they were perhaps better liars than he gave them credit for—because they'd affected each other in every aspect; emotions, personalities, behaviors, even food preferences (although Barton had never been able to convert Romanoff to his disturbingly high sugar demand in coffee – she'd preferred it black). It saddened Phil to remember these things, but not as much as it'd sadden him to forget them.

Maybe Maria was right; maybe his love of Natasha and Clint clouded his judgment. But damn if he'd let his selfishness to prevent his own misery overrule Sasha's self-unknown need for guidance and a remotely stable childhood, away from the dangers of the streets where thugs and rapists used little girls like her, breaking them eternally into disrepair. Thuds and spies and rapists had molded Natasha, and it had broken the potentially beautiful and pure ballerina she could have been, shaping a queen of nightmares and espionage. Natasha had excelled in her trade, but with terrible prices like trust and love. That she'd found Clint and trusted him had been a small miracle, one Phil had witnessed as closely as they had let him. Looking at Sasha, he saw what had come from such a union, but also the result of unforeseen neglect. He knew Sasha wouldn't qualify it as such—she'd thrived on the streets, probably growing cockier and more cunning by each day—but all children needed stable environments, and the marketplaces and places of tourism in St. Petersburg hadn't been. Frankly, Phil felt angered at Natasha for placing her child there, but then he remembered how the Widow had gone down, slashing throats and gutting stomachs. Perhaps Sasha had truly gotten the better end of the deal. Until she'd started running away.

Running away, Phil thought; it seemed to be the pattern of those three. Sasha from her orphanages, and Clint twenty years prior, joining a circus and training as a performer by carnies who probably raised him better than his own family (not that he'd had one to return to). Still, tragedies had befallen the Bartons, and the rest, as they said, were history that pained Phil to remember. Natasha… well, Natasha was an extraordinarily special case. It had been Natasha's forged signature that had admitted Sasha 'Lyubomirsky' into the orphanage, and Phil wondered, perhaps, if she'd known she wouldn't return from Cuba. Surely she wouldn't have abandoned Sasha, would she?

Having never witnessed how his spy friend had parented, he couldn't have given an answer. Natasha had been an enigma until the day her corpse had been dug from Cuban debris. The discovery of Sasha had been almost accidental, a personal whim of coincidence.

Phil eyed Sasha's sleeping form, and wondered how a person so tiny could sleep so much. Maybe it was how she dealt with the hardships of reality – though sleep and isolation. He'd have to ask her if it worked.

There was, of course, aside from paternity and maternity, the issue of guardianship. S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn't allow Sasha, who'd been brought to the States by of their agents and hence, agency, to remain unsupervised and un-enrolled to proper care. Unwilling to have her taken from him upon landing, he knew the paperwork had to be done and the transition legalized. He'd spoken briefly to the manager of the orphanage who'd seemed completely oblivious to Sasha's bouts of lone-wolf behavior and runaway tendencies. Then again, she'd had fifty girls in her care, none of which shared Sasha's independence as fervently.

He wanted to ask her about how she grew up; about what she liked and didn't like; about her parents – at least those she'd known; about her memories, and overall childhood. But Phil knew better than to overwhelm her with questions that might have no answers and be devastated by her ignorance. However much he wanted her to be Natasha's, he couldn't be completely certain, and it irked him. Phil liked being certain, being able to predict how his agents and himself would react in given situations. It made him a competent handler, but not enough so to be a good friend.

There was also the rather obvious problem – the one that Phil was mentally dodging and continuously willing to ignore, because, frankly, he had a vague idea of what her counter-arguments would be. Phil had gradually moved on since New York and New York again, and during that process of moving on, he'd gotten married. It still surprised him at times, but he had always before twisted his wedding band with a smile on his lips. Jenna supported him in ways he hadn't thought himself (or others) able. He'd almost given up on romantic companionship by the time he'd met her, and although her job enabled her to know the burdens of classified information, Phil had never confided in her the exact events that broke up his best team. Jenna wasn't gullible; she knew there was information Phil would never have the strength to tell her, and she'd somehow figured out that people named Clint and Natasha were one of those topics, but she hadn't realized how deeply those wounds were cut, even as they'd scarred. She knew enough to refuse to take in Sasha, should she know Phil's doubts as to the girl's parentage. Yet Phil also knew Jenna's kind nature and compassion.

Still, wives didn't take kindly when you brought in strays. The pen lingered above the box entitled _secondary guardian_. There was a reason Phil and Jenna didn't have kids. They were both busy people with busy jobs and a workaholic attitude that had warned off former boyfriends and girlfriends (and in Jenna's case, a fiancé). There was nothing Phil would rather do than fill out the form with the name Jenna Zimmermann-Coulson doubtlessly and faithfully, but the world wasn't as simple as that. He only had to look right to see one of the prime examples.

It wasn't sane. Hell, anybody who'd met Clint and Natasha on one of their cranky days would have run screaming, not signed up for babysitting duty (yet Phil was almost certainly sure that Sasha was much more mature than say, Stark, on the average daily basis. She'd had to be). And four hours into the flight, Phil's satellite phone rang, and Phil only had to check the caller ID to know that this would be one of those calls. The ones during which the caller would tell him precisely how not-sane this was, and Phil would end up doing it anyway.

"Maria," Phil said, feigning a cheerful tone in the hopes that it'd damp the certain scolding that would inevitably follow now where she'd gotten the opportunity to establish a proper argument. "How's Finland going?"

"_About as smooth as a gravel road_," Hill replied in a tone that indicated she'd gotten no sleep in the time between their last phone call and this conversation. She sighed. "_I called because the first test results are in_."

"The first?" Phil questioned, seeing no reason for the rate of results of the blood test to differ. "Has there been a delay?"

Maria went on systematically. "_Romanoff's DNA is unique, unlike normal human DNA. Biologists say corrupted, intelligence agencies improved. If we hadn't already analyzed it to the point where it starts to make me lose proper diction, you'd have to wait twelve hours just like everybody else_."

Phil knew the translation of her words. One – he better damn well appreciate the influence he could pull on the forensics laboratory, and two – that it was lucky that he was trying to match the sample to one of the most-analyzed people on file. DNA testing normally ranged from twenty-four to forty-eight hours, and the normal time was twelve within S.H.I.E.L.D.'s forensic department. There was a line, and he continuously pulled rank and broke it, much to the chagrin of the forensic specialist by the name of Gallagher. Evidently something Maria now knew, presumably from having talked to said forensic specialist. "And?"

"_It was a blood comparison between two samples. You were right. She's Natasha's_," Maria declared warily. "_It's impossible to tell if the amplifications are dormant or not – those that are in her system – but… she's definitely related to the Black Widow_," she concluded.

Phil's heart felt several pounds lighter. "What about her father?"

He could practically hear her bite her lower lip in complication. "_Fury delayed the rest results until you arrive in New York. There's nothing I can do about it from here. He wants you to explain yourself_."

That was never a good thing (but then again, having Fury know this amount of sensitive information wasn't a good idea, either, considering he'd probably been the one to order the Cuban attack on the Widow. In response to this and considerable lack of sleep, Phil could only say, "_Oh_. That's not good."

"_Do you want me to call Jenna?_" Maria asked tentatively.

"Yes. No. I don't know." He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes as he recalled Jenna's latest goodbye and post-it note. "She's in Stanford this week," Phil said, remembering that his wife had mentioned something about doing lectures on the behalf of NSA's recruiting service. He shouldn't be this overwhelmed by confirmation of what he'd tried to convince himself of since hearing of the girl.

"_Still_…" Maria began.

"I'll handle it," he said hastily, cutting her off before she could make him doubt himself.

"_I saw you applied for guardianship_," she stated. He could hear the question in the statement but outright refused to face it. He could hear the skepticism. "_Phil, is this wise? You're too_ close—"

"Hill, I'm doing this," he interjected with deadly conviction. There was a moment of silence as Maria accepted his words.

"_Okay. Okay_," she said, gritting her teeth, and he could imagine how troubled she'd look. "_Just remember she's a kid, not a dog._"

Even though he wasn't supposed to, Phil smiled at the comment. Although they had no children, he and Jenna had adopted a Beagle last year. Eduardo was everything Phil's agents weren't—disciplined, trained, and accustomed to a unique and adaptive schedule, which he didn't bitch about. "Eduardo's manageable," he stated, trying hard to keep the doubt out of his tone as he remembered last month's shoe incident.

"_Eddie's not a ten-year-old Russian criminal_," Maria deadpanned and pointed out. He could hear by the tone of her voice that Jenna _had_ informed Maria of said shoe incident (but probably not that she'd caved and pardoned the dog and allowed it to sleep in their bed the subsequent night). Phil heard chatter in the background and the movement of muscle—probably as she typed, phone snug between her shoulder and chin. He heard her absentmindedness surface, but underneath that was the certain promise that they weren't done with this discussion. "_I have to go, Phil. I'll see you back at HQ._"

Phil's eyes watched Sasha as he ended the phone call. A blinking dot in the corner of the screen informed him of a missed call and a voicemail. He flipped through the logs and contemplated redialing, but a headcount reminded him that it'd be three in the morning where Jenna was staying. Romantic affections could wait. Eduardo's walker, Kim, had made sure the young dog got his daily exercise during Phil's deployment and search. He pressed the glass screen and listened to his wife's message.

"_Hey_," the soft voice said, awkward, and yet he could hear the longing in her voice. He missed her, too, and instantly pictured her walking back and forth within the confines of her hotel room. He heard the slightest thud and knew she must've sat down. "_I don't know when you'll get this message. I'm about to tuck myself in, and thought I'd call. I miss you, Phil_." He could hear the earnestness. "_Anyway, I'll be home in a couple of days. The agency seems satisfied, but I have honestly no idea why I accepted this task_."

Jenna snorted, amused. If it had been a phone call, Phil would have pointed out that it was because she liked offering alternatives to students, liked the less dark sides of the field, but hated that those youngsters had no idea that the job was far from superhero duties and James Bond parodies. He'd have told her he loved her and he looked forward to seeing her in two days. Alas, he couldn't and didn't, and the message continued as if never taking into account his thoughts. "_I love you. Sweet dreams_."

Phil smiled at the cute message. Sometimes they forgot to be Agents Zimmermann-Coulson and Coulson, and were simply Jenna and Phil, a pair of dorky sweethearts that acted as if high school and its insecurities had never ended. He reminded himself to take her out the next occasion. They both had demanding jobs, and were willing only to find compromises. Phil wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Soon, his eyes landed upon the form again – that treacherous piece of paper that induced conflict within he'd never really confronted (nor did he wish to) – and he picked up the pen. _Secondary guardian_, it read. His gaze skidded to the sleeping (and yeah, drooling) girl in the Quinjet seat. It took him longer than he'd have liked – considering his practice obtained during the last decade – to write the nine-letter-long name in the provided box. The letters flowed from the pen effortlessly (perhaps not emotionally so, but he had typed and written the name of his current superior and former partner too many times to mess up the penmanship on _Maria Hill_). Somewhere he could picture Barton silently curse and Natasha nod wisely (yet he couldn't, because they were dead and had no saying)

Additionally, Phil crossed out Lyubomirsky and wrote Romanova instead while he smirked smugly the way Sasha had.

Sasha Romanova, the girl who liked snow. It was a good place to start.

* * *

_(…)_

_For this must ever be_

_A secret, kept from all the rest_

_Between yourself and me_

- Lewis Carroll, "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"


End file.
